Friday, March 13, 2009

Marc Jacobs ended the season at Louis Vuitton in Paris as he began it with his own show in New York: with the eighties. Different city, different accent, though, and this slice of the late eighties—ruffled, ruched, and poufed as it was—looked as if Jacobs had pulled out his 1987 magazines and worked up a playful homage to Christian Lacroix. He didn't quite put it that way backstage, however. Jacobs said that, partly in preparation for the Model as Muse exhibition at the Met and his role as honorary chair of the opening gala, he was thinking of "all those great French muses of the late eighties." Specifically, he cited Marie Seznec (who modeled for Lacroix), Victoire de Castellane (who worked for Chanel), and Inès de la Fressange (who was virtually French fashion mascot in chief at the time).

Looking back on those days of chichi fashion extremes brought out a lot of jeune Parisienne frivolity in the clothes, if not the staging, which was done, pseudo-salon style, without a runway (albeit in a large transparent tent parked, as usual, in a courtyard of the Louvre). The chance of a close inspection revealed lots of puffy peplum jackets, tons of shirring and ruching (in print or leather), bubble skirts, bejeweled satin leggings, and a mini lace Marie Antoinette pannier dress with a saucy sheer balconette. Jacobs' take on big shoulders ran from grosgrain bow-smothered balloon puffs to the widest short coats (in camel or red) on any runway—almost as broad as they were long.

It was also a rich accessory fest for the leather goods company. Leather necklaces and belts came fashioned like paper chains, and thigh boots were topped with ruffles and balanced on pearl and glitter-covered heels. The all-important bags had also acquired eighties pie-crust frills and gilded monograms. If it wasn't quite the fashion tour de force of Vuitton's Spring collection, this penultimate show of an often dour and cautious season read as a welcome interlude of cheerful, flirty confidence in a post-crash depression.

Head designers and founders of Dsquared2, Canadian Canadian twin brothers Dan and Dean, did costume design for the ongoing Britney Spears Circus world tour, some on the sketches above. You can view more of DSquared2 circus tour outfits at their website, with special previews form the tour.

"GQ Magazine's profile of "Twilight" hunk Robert Pattinson in its April issue is one of the best celebrity interviews I've read in ages. Usually these things put me to sleep; same manufactured stories, nothing true or funny or slightly off-script.

Maybe this one is good because the writer is observant and witty, and he also writes about real fans' reactions to Rob during their lunch at La Conversation on Doheny Drive in West Hollywood. (About three blocks from my house!)

And it may be mostly because Rob is sweet, nervous, funny, honest and not at all media trained (yet).

You find out a lot about Rob's sex life (onscreen only, sorry), how he's terrified of interviews, how he slept with his dog when distraught over a cheating girlfriend, when he took his first Valium, doing it with a dude in “Little Ashes” and how he really spends his nights (not in hot L.A. clubs, but at home watching videos).

Here’s what Pattinson says about getting the part of Edward in "Twilight":

“I took half a Valium and then went into this thing — and all this stuff happened.”

“It was the first time I’ve ever taken Valium,” he tells GQ. “A quarter. A quarter of a Valium. I tried to do it for another audition, and it just completely backfired — I was passing out.”

And then there’s his new film, “Little Ashes," in which he plays artist Salvador Dali to Javier Beltrán's poet-playwright Federico Garcia Lorca and, naked, has graphic sex with a guy.

“In a lot of ways,” Pattinson admits “I was kind of crossing lines of what I thought I was comfortable doing. I had to do all this naked stuff.”

“There’s all these gay sex scenes. And y’know, I haven’t even done a sex scene with a girl, in my whole career. And here I am, with Javier, who plays Lorca, doing an extremely hard-core sex scene, where I have a nervous breakdown afterward. And because we’re both straight, what we were doing seemed kind of ridiculous.”

It gets worse. People were watching. People who spoke a different language. And they were laughing.

"And it wasn’t even a closed set," Rob moans. "There were all these Spanish electricians giggling to themselves.”

Thursday, March 12, 2009

“I don’t know anything about fashion or looking good,” the 23-year-old Canadian actor tells the mag. “Going out to clubs and trying to grind with the ladies is not really my thing. I like skateboarding and being close to the beach, rather than spending my time recovering from the night before. It will be interesting, because when the cast does go out, there will probablt be some intense attention. It’s knd of nuts. I’m still trying to prepare myself for it, but I’m not really sure there’s any way you can.”

John Galliano struck out on his own into the frozen wastes of Russian-Balkan folklore for Fall. A micro-bubble snowstorm was falling on the runway, and a trick of laser lighting created a magical illusion that the models were walking in some fairy-tale tunnel far, far removed from the brutish realities of humankind's current worries. It was theater, escapism—the creation of a parallel fantasy world upon which the concerns of "fashion" barely impinged.

Oodles of embroidery and workmanship, and a ton of research into folk costume had been lavished on the details of the pannier-hipped, full-skirted coats; balloon-sleeved peasant blouses; bodices; headdresses; and pompom-trimmed cross-laced boots. Toward the end, the show moved into more traditional Galliano territory with a sequence of spun-silver bias-cut dresses that had all the delicate romance his fans adore.

Technically, it was faultlessly accomplished and—for anyone put off by the blanket of black that has fallen over many of the collections—offered some of the season's few opportunities to pick up color. But it remains to be seen whether those will be strong enough attractions to outweigh the fact that this show had very little to do with anything else that's going on.

The fanfare of their first haute couture outing behind them, the new Valentino designers, Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pier Paolo Piccioli, presented their ready-to-wear collection today, and while the label's retired founder wasn't visibly cheering from the sidelines as he was in January, his spirit was certainly present. As former accessories designers under Mr. Valentino, the incumbent duo are keenly aware of the house codes, and today they adhered rather dutifully to the ladylike sensibility for which these clothes have always been known.

Elaborating on several of the ideas they presented in their sixties-inflected couture collection, Chiuri and Piccioli showed sleeveless sheaths and coats with fan pleating below the ribs, some accented with a jeweled brooch. There were evening coats with gradated crystal beading, deep fox-fur cuffs and hems replacing couture's feathers. Cocktail dresses and gowns, meanwhile, featured draped and shirred bodices, but despite bold colors like emerald, golden yellow, and turquoise, they erred on the staid side. The same goes for those camel and bordeaux cape-backed lunch suits. A long leopard-spot cape with a wide band of fur at the hem had a younger feel.

Overall, capturing the youth vote with this collection will prove a challenge. Mr. Valentino, of course, was popular with ladies of a certain age, but he always was—and continues to be—quite tapped in with the fabulous crowd. In order to move the label forward as the new designers' mandate requires, a little less reverence for the past and a little more attention to what the palazzo set is wearing now will be in order.

In a season when coat-dresses and skirtsuits have risen to somewhere near the top of the item charts, Chanel presented a series of fashion's most poised and charming versions. That formula transmitted some of the loveliness of Karl Lagerfeld's sublime origami-paper Spring Couture collection into super-feminine white collar and cuff treatments—frothy plissé ruffs, chiffon camellias, and French maid frills encircled the neck or sleeves on soft, fitted black silhouettes. Cleverly, today's outing also achieved a rare balance between being grown-up and youthful—a note set by the casting of Karen Elson to open the show. Here was a fabulous-looking 30-year-old woman, rather than some anonymous waif.

Lagerfeld tagged the collection "Belle Brummell," a gender-reassigned quip referring to the British Regency dandy who dictated men's fashion by tying his cravats in ever more elaborate configurations. The pun also gave full permission to bring the classic Chanel white georgette blouse into play, a perfect device for subtracting the austerity from black in a distinctly Rue Cambon manner. Lagerfeld worked it every which way, in bouclé, lace, knit, satin, and paillettes, while also making a witty swerve in the direction of the season's motorcycle leathers (interpreted here in slim drop-waist dresses) and puffer jackets.

What color there was turned up in brief passages of pale green or baby pink. Admittedly, that green wasn't the most felicitous shade in the palette for clothing, but it was really there to underline the presence of the jade Deco-style pendants and neckpieces—a further echo of which could be found in the jade rings implanted in several pairs of heels. All in all, though, this wasn't one of Chanel's more playful simultaneous broadcasts to the world—more a serious reinforcement of the brand's eternal attractions.

Alexander McQueen may be the last designer standing who is brave or foolhardy enough to present a collection that is an unadulterated piece of hard and ballsy showmanship. The heated arguments that broke out afterward were testament to that. There were those who found his picture of women with sex-doll lips and sometimes painfully theatrical costumes ugly and misogynistic. Others—mainly young spectators who haven't been thrilled by the season's many sensible pitches to middle-aged working women—were energized by the sheer spectacle, as well as the couture-level drama in the execution of the clothes.

It was certainly meant as a last-stand fin de siècle blast against the predicament in which fashion, and possibly consumerism as a whole, finds itself. The set was a scrap heap of debris from the stages of McQueen's own past shows, surrounded by a shattered glass runway. The clothes were, for the most part, high-drama satires of twentieth-century landmark fashion: parodies of Christian Dior houndstooth New Look and Chanel tweed suits, moving through harsh orange and black harlequinade looks to revisited showstoppers from McQueen's own archive.

The romantic side of McQueen's character, which rises intermittently in deliriously beautiful shows like his recent tribute to the Victorian empire, was emphatically in abeyance. This is a designer who has drawn so much poetry out of the past, yet this time his backward look appeared to be in something like anger, defiance, or possibly gallows humor. Some of the pieces, like a couple of swag-sided coats, seemed to be made of trash bags, accessorized with aluminum cans wrapped in plastic as headgear.

Nevertheless, however frustrated McQueen may be by the state of commercial fashion, he was not really in absurdist rip-it-up mode. Whatever else is gnawing him, this is a man who will never compromise on construction and craftsmanship. This season, he'd noticeably forgone his typical carapace corsetry, making for slightly easier shapes, like boxy jackets, airy gazar dresses, and a fringed dogtooth sheath. For McQueen's faithful, there were also fiercely tailored coats, nipped in the waist and picking up on biker quilted leather and big-shouldered silhouettes. Evening-wise—sans the drag-queen makeup—there was a slim, black paillette homage-to-YSL wrapover dress with a red-lined hood that would stand up as elegant in any company.

Ultimately, for all the feathered and sculpted showpieces that must have taken hundreds of seamstress-hours to perfect, this was a McQueen collection that didn't push fashion anywhere new. Yet that seemed to be exactly one of the things he was pointing to: the state of a collapsed economy that doesn't know how to move forward.

Squaring circles is the name of the game for every established house this season. In a nutshell: How do you keep customers (i.e., freaked-out department stores and skeptical, reality-seeking shoppers) onside, while also keeping up the dialogue with fashion? At Dior, John Galliano found an easy compromise with a collection lightly based on the orientalism of Paul Poiret, an artistic Parisian craze dating back almost a century. No need for frantic reference-Googling here: The main point of Galliano's device is that it gave access to the areas of harem pants, rich gilded brocades, and Asian influences in general. Christian Dior never went East himself, certainly, but the notion wove ikat patterns, cheongsam fastenings, paisley prints, and those newly fashionable trousers into the house codes in a way that came out making sense for the many markets Galliano has to juggle.

Happily, there was no sense of straining for a recession solution about it. After treating Dior's standard suitings to a light, shortened adaptation of Poiret's hobble skirt, Galliano moved on to paisley-print day dresses and thence to the drapey harems (best in cream satin with a pale beige astrakhan gilet). That opened a neat portal through which Galliano's romantic, silver filigree Indian-embroidered chiffon cocktail and evening dresses could pass, looking effortlessly pretty. The result: grown-up fare for regular women, editorial-grade styling to appeal to the fashion press, and, in total, a clever feat of simultaneous translation from a well-traveled designer who knows how to reach his global markets.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

If one person in Milan could have gone back to the eighties with full credentials—massive shoulders, Day-Glo, disco-mania, and all—it would have been Donatella Versace. Full marks to her, then, for refusing. Her collection, like the woman herself, has long moved on. These days, she still drapes a slinky, liquid dress with much of the mastery Gianni achieved in his time, but any real compulsion to look back at the good old days has evaporated. There was, it's true, a quick flash of neon somewhere in there, but mostly Versace concentrated on working around metallics—silver, gunmetal, dark gray, and midnight blue—and palest neutrals. Decorated trenches, super-skinny cargo pants, and the odd biker jacket appeared for day, the only embroidery subtly streaked onto the hemline of a coat. No bling, no gold, no logos in sight.

Restrained wasn't quite the word for it, though. Daywear out of the way, Versace dealt out dress after dress, long and goddess-y or short and covered in plastic paillettes. Best in class were the one red dress and a nude, bugle-beaded gown, fit for a thirties movie siren. It all went on a bit too long, but funnily enough that gave time for the eye to observe some changing aesthetics. Noticeably, it was the girls who could fill out the dresses who looked best in these clothes—and knew it. To see Carmen Kass, Coco Rocha, Isabeli Fontana, and the newly (slightly more) curvy Lily Donaldson work these dresses with visible confidence was an encouraging reminder that, yes, some things can get better with age.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

No wonder Dolce & Gabbana are in love with Elsa Schiaparelli for Fall. She was an original proponent of the ballooning shoulder (the fashion story of the season), worked her surrealist glamour through tough and weird times, and was an Italian to boot. In an edgy moment, Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana used her example to defy all fashion nervousness and lay on a sumptuous show whose production values gave no quarter to the idea that cutbacks and timidity should be the order of the day. Quite the opposite, in fact. The front row was positively teeming with A-listers: Scarlett Johansson, Kate Hudson, Naomi Watts, Freida Pinto, Eva Mendes, and others who had all flown in to view the clothes, and then take in the Extreme Beauty in Vogue exhibition opening that the designers have underwritten at the Palazzo della Ragione.

The thirties and forties references played through the displaced gloves used as headpieces and scarves, the shell-shaped buttons, the clunky wartime suede platform wedges, the homages to Schiap's shocking pink, and, of course, those huge, puffed-up leg-of-mutton sleeves, rising up in some cases to earlobe level. The spending on luxe materials and a cinematic level of beauty never ceased. Fox, dyed goat hair, mink, and rich brocades were worked into narrow-waisted silhouettes, alternating—though not much—with bell-shaped skirts.

It might have been a one-message show, but as is always the case with these superconfident designers, there was never any surrender of house identity. Dolce & Gabbana-isms were wittily reiterated when their signature Sicilian corseted and see-through lingerie dresses reappeared, Schiap-shaped, counterpointed by black tuxedo suits. Finally, their traditional ending parade of exaggerated crinolines shifted the look completely to their own territory, with Monroe photo prints spreading over the skirts. Times may be tough, but these are two guys who are not about to give an inch on what they believe in.

One thing's for certain: Miuccia Prada is not going to the eighties disco for Fall. Instead, her collection seemed to be a call for austerity measures, if that's what you can read into boiled wool forties-style coats and suits, clothes that might have been appropriated from domestic upholstery fabric, and (possibly for women going back to the land for survival) kinky fishing waders. It was a bizarre take on utility even Prada found hard to explain. "I didn't want to do anything about the city," she said, "more something about sport and the outdoors in general—freedom and nature. But in the end, I realized I liked coats and suits. It was serious, in a way. It was about a need for feminine empowerment." Prada's women, with their violently frizzed-up hair, certainly had a disconcerting look about them as they advanced, with red-rimmed glitter-ringed eyes catching the light with a nearly malevolent glint. What they were wearing was constructed from substantial tweed and stiff leather, slit to reveal sexually incendiary flashes of naked leg and red knit underwear.

As is entirely normal in the Miuccia Prada universe, any easy reading of narrative or reference was thrown off at every turn. Some of the strangeness was in the search for new volumes, swinging heavily from the shoulder in triangular, sometimes fur-laden shapes, or pinched into peplums by narrow, mannish leather belts. The footwear—wide-topped leather boots or velvet heels with Mohawk patent fringing at the heel—only added to the oddness of it all. In the end, however, it was not so disorientating and experimental that Prada codes weren't also fully exercised. The tweedy tailoring, fur, paillette embroidery, and, of course, the bags (now in plain businesslike leather or, for evening, an update of last winter's novelty sequin) have been staples for years. Even though Miuccia Prada might be considered one of fashion's out-there thinkers, this is still clearly a time to keep the brand fires burning.

In 1954, Maria Callas recorded a memorable version of Bellini's Norma at the Cinema Metropol, the theater where today Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana stage their fashion shows. With the legendary soprano for inspiration, their D&G collection was unapologetically operatic. Bustier dresses with lampshade miniskirts came in brocade, jewel-studded velvet, or tapestry-print chiffon, while a bustier top was paired with high-waisted jeans encrusted with big, colorful crystals. And because every diva needs a cape (a strong theme here in Milan), there was a version in ocelot-print ponyskin and another in gray fur with a collar that looked like chinchilla. The colors—ocher, burgundy, cadet blue, and black—were as lush and rich as the collection's furniture fabrics, but point d'esprit and tulle tutus in pastels worn with T-shirts printed with Callas' image lightened the mix.

As a foil to the sweetness, the designers threw in some tailcoats with trompe l'oeil frogging and gaiter pants. The models marched down the red-carpeted runway in sky-high platforms with curtain swags in their hair. You could picture some of these clothes finding their way onto the narrow shoulders of young starlets on the premiere circuit. Dolce and Gabbana's message was loud and clear: "The show must go on."

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Hannah Montana starlet Miley Cyrus and her shirtless boyfriend, model Justin Gaston, work up a sweat together, taking a jog around her neighborhood Toluca Lake in the San Fernando Valley on Saturday (February 28).source

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